money but not enough to last forever. Besides, we're young--we can't
vegetate, we need to do something.'
'Maybe we can start a business in Eagle's Roost.'
'What sort of business?'
'I don't know. Anything,' she said. 'We can go, see what it's like,
and maybe we'll spot an opportunity right off the bat. And if not .
. well, we don't have to live there forever. A year, two years, and if
we don't like it, we can sell.' He finished his champagne, poured
refreshers for both of them.
'Toby starts school in two weeks....'
'They have schools in Montana,' she said, though she knew that was not
what concerned him. He was no doubt thinking about the eleven-year-old
girl who'd been shot to death one block from the elementary school that
Toby would be attending.
She nudged him: 'He'll have six hundred acres to play on, Jack. How
long has he wanted a dog, a golden retriever, and it just seemed like
this place was too small for one?'
Staring at one of the snapshots, Jack said, 'At work today, we were
talking about all the names this city has, more than other places.
Like New York is the Big Apple, and that's it. But L.A. has lots of
names--and none of them fit any more, none of them mean anything. Like
the Big Orange. But there aren't any orange groves any more, all gone
to tract houses and mini-malls and car lots.
You can call it the City of Angels, but not much angelic happens here
any more, not the way it once did, too many devils on the streets.'
'The City Where Stars Are Born,' she said. 'And nine hundred and
ninety-nine out of a thousand kids who come here to be movie
stars--what happens to them? Wind up used, abused, broke, and hooked
on drugs.'
'The City Where the Sun Goes Down.'
'Well, it still does set in the west,' he acknowledged, picking up
another photo from Montana.
'City Where the Sun Goes Down ... That makes you think of the thirties
and forties, swing music, men tipping their hats to one another and
holding doors open for ladies in black cocktail dresses, elegant
nightclubs overlooking the ocean, Bogart and Bacall, Gable and Lombard,
people sipping martinis and watching golden sunsets. All gone. Mostly
gone. These days, call it the City of the Dying Day.'
He fell silent. Shuming the photographs, studying them. She waited.
At last he looked up and said, 'Let's do it.'
PART TWO The Land of the Winter Moon Under the winter moon's pale
light, across the cold and starry night, from snowy mountains soaring
high to ocean shores echoes the cry.
From barren sands to verdant fields, from city streets to lonely
wealds, cries the tortured human heart, seeking solace, wisdom, a chart
by which to understand its plight under the winter moon's pale light.
Dawn is unable to fade the night. Must we live ever in the blight
under the winter moon's cold light, lost in loneliness, hate, and
fright, last night, tonight, tomorrow night under the winter moon's
bleak light?
